


gone nuclear (or, no place like home)

by TechnicalTragedy



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Depression, First Kiss, First Time, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Post-Canon, Sad Dad SoSu
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-18
Updated: 2016-02-18
Packaged: 2018-05-21 13:32:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6053389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TechnicalTragedy/pseuds/TechnicalTragedy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wanderer thinks of his son, of every version of his son he's known. His infant son he'd do anything to protect, the synth child that was his son's perfect model, and the old man. Father was still Wanderer's son, despite everything, but Wanderer had killed him anyway.</p>
<p>“I hate you!” rings in his ears, forever on a feedback loop running through and through and through...</p>
            </blockquote>





	gone nuclear (or, no place like home)

**Author's Note:**

> codename: the wanderer. he roams around, around, around, around...
> 
> disclaimer: "I don't like sad gays." -cs pacat

“Hey boss, are you... Are you alright?” Deacon asks, real concern in his voice.

 

Wanderer thinks of his son, of every version of his son he's known. His infant son he'd do anything to protect, the synth child that was his son's perfect model, and the old man. Father was still Wanderer's son, despite everything, but Wanderer had killed him anyway. “ _The needs out the many outweigh the needs of the few, or the one_ ,” right? It didn't make him feel better, not when he could still see the ashes settling, could still taste them on his tongue.

 

“You know we had to do this, right? It was the only way,” Deacon says, and he's closer than Wanderer wants him to be right now, closer than he has any right to be.

 

Wanderer doesn't reply, and, eventually, Deacon stops trying.

 

 

\- - -

 

 

The wind whistles outside Wanderer's window, a melody that only the trees and rocks can understand, these days. It's been a month since the fall of the Institute, and every settlement Wanderer had worked so hard on is a sanctuary in and of itself, providing new lives for the synths and their new freedoms. It would be inspiring, maybe, if Wanderer could muster up the energy to give a shit.

 

No one is happy with his sudden disinterest in everything. If he isn't working, what use is he? The “Hero of the Commonwealth” is an empty title if their so-called savior can't even get out of his fucking bed.

 

The front door opens, its hinges squealing like an alarm to Wanderer. The footsteps are deliberately noticeable, and Wanderer knows it's Deacon. No one else would care enough to make sure he heard them coming.

 

Sure enough, Deacon's sunglasses poke around the doorway, expression inscrutable as he stares at Wanderer. Eventually, he does come further into Wanderer's once and future bedroom, and he settles on the other side of the king-sized bed. Wanderer was never quite sure that he needed so big a bed, but when Deacon started sleeping with him he realized just how much he missed sleeping near another warm body. It kept the cold infused in his bones at bay, almost letting him pretend everything was okay again.

 

Deacon's specialty is silence. He doesn't feel the need to fill up empty air like Wanderer does – like he _used_ to, he hasn't been quite so talkative since the Institute. Deacon can sit in silence for hours, just waiting until you crack and speak first. With the way he inhales, Wanderer doesn't think today is one of his more patient.

 

“How're you holding up,” Deacon says without inflection, like it doesn't need a reply if Wanderer doesn't feel like providing one.

 

Wanderer thinks. He weighs the pros and cons of speaking, of staying silent, and decides, “I've been better.”

 

It's meant to be some kind of joke, something to get Deacon to at least crack a smile, but instead Wanderer can feel those piercing eyes on him through Deacon's shades. “Is there anything I can do?” Deacon asks, just like he does every time.

 

“Just give me time,” Wanderer replies, just like he does every time.

 

 

\- - -

 

 

The bourbon feels like fire going down his throat, but at least Wanderer made it out of bed today. He takes another swig to chase the first down, hating that this is what he's become. He wants to celebrate that he's out of the house, that he's not lurking inside that den of memories anymore, but what's a party if there's nobody to dance with?

 

The radio is on, programmed to Diamond City Radio. Wanderer remembers building that radio, remembers pulling the guts out of old machinery and telephones and breathing life and sound into a radio like the ones he'd had around as a child. It was a little rudimentary, a little rougher than his more recent creations, but it was realer than the radio in his Pip-Boy, made him feel a little less homesick.

 

The current song ends, replaced by the host's voice. Travis is sounding better, at least. A little obnoxious, sure, but his new confidence in himself seems to be doing a world of good. He stops speaking, and Wanderer finds that he hadn't caught a single thing Travis had said. The opening notes of Bob Crosby's “Way Back Home” begin, and Wanderer laughs, loud and sharp and painful.

 

He laughs until he cries, and the radio gets turned off somewhere between the next sip of bourbon and the bottom of the bottle.

 

 

\- - -

 

 

Wanderer sits beside Danse, both of them a short distance away from the festivities around the bonfire. Spirits are high and flowing freely, all the synths and humans alike having the times of their lives because finally, _finally_ they managed to send a squad of brave synths in and confirm Father was dead. Their tyrannical, oppressive creator is dead, and they're truly free. There's a difference between having extreme confidence in your suspicions and having them confirmed.

 

“ _Ding dong, the Wicked Witch is dead_ ,” Wanderer murmurs to himself, and Danse knows better by now than to question the weird Pre-War references Wanderer tends to spout out before he remembers that no one, not even Deacon, the lover of all things Pre-War, has any clue what he's talking about.

 

Wanderer raises the vodka bottle, but Danse quickly swipes it out of his hand, giving him a meaningful look as he pops a stopper in it and sets it aside. Ah, right. They (being Preston, Danse, Deacon, Curie, and even Hancock, MacCready and Cait) had decided to put a limit on how much Wanderer was allowed to drink. Unfortunately Curie had told them all about dependencies and how Wanderer was displaying signs of being depressed. This, of course, led to another conversation about what depression was and, seriously? Medicine declined so far after the War that people don't even know about mental illnesses anymore?

 

“Paladin, why aren't you over there having a good time? You don't have to watch over me like I can't handle myself, you know,” Wanderer says.

 

Danse looks away from him, back at the fire, and the shadows cast by silhouettes flitting around flicker over his face, making him seem so much older than he must be. “It's not entirely for your sake, you know. I just...” Danse's face screws up in a scowl. He's never been good at expressing his thoughts. “I don't know where I fit in around here. I'm a synth, apparently, but I'm ex-Brotherhood. I was part of the terror regime going around slaughtering synths without regard to the fact that maybe, just maybe, they weren't so different from myself.” He chuckles wryly, rubbing at the back of his neck. “I'm not much for parties, anyway.”

 

Wanderer nods, but doesn't say anything more. He finds he far prefers the quiet, nowadays.

 

The hoots and general party ruckus last well into the night, until an incoming radiation storm forces the good-times gang to seek shelter. Finally, all that's left is Wanderer's inner circle. They've weathered worse storms, and will most likely continue to do so.

 

Wanderer moves closer to the fire so that he's with his friends. He doesn't notice the pleased smiles on their faces as they make sure to include him in conversation. He isn't paying much attention to them, anyway.

 

What Wanderer _does_ notice, what is impossible for him to miss, is that Deacon's eyes don't leave him the whole time. The butterflies in his stomach are losing their shit.

 

 

\- - -

 

 

“Deacon,” Wanderer says abruptly, and a thick eyebrow raises over the man's sunglasses, a silent encouragement for Wanderer to say what he needs to. “Deacon, are we dating?”

 

Deacon pauses, then puts down the book he's reading, dog-earing the page so he can find it later. He levels an impossible-to-read look at Wanderer. “Do you want to be?”

 

Wanderer feels heat color his cheeks, and curses internally. “It's just, well, we've been traveling together for a while, I mean, we _had_ been, back when we were out doing field agent things, right? And, you, you sleep in my bed every night, and sometimes you watch me when you think I don't know, but I do. I know your possibly-bullshit story about your wife; you know my whole sorry backstory. We, we complement each other so well, both in a fight and out of one, and I trust you wholeheartedly, even if you are a pathological liar.”

 

The metaphorical crickets chirp in the ensuing stretch of silence. Wanderer is this close to telling Deacon to forget about it when warm fingers slip between his own. Deacon is staring straight at him, face expressionless, but his fingers tremble minutely where they're touching Wanderer.

 

“I don't know much about how people dated, um, Pre-War,” Deacon says, uncertain. “Usually, out in the Wastes, we just kind of, um, fall together. I mean, we know who we love, who we trust, and who we want to spend our lives with, and usually that person is the same person. If we're lucky, I mean.”

 

Wanderer squeezes Deacon's hand, heart pounding in his throat. “Am I that person? For you, that is.”

 

Deacon swallows, but a smile breaks over his face like dawn on the horizon, and Wanderer is set ablaze.

 

They curl together that night, and Deacon is gone in the morning. Wanderer isn't worried.

 

 

\- - -

 

 

The crack of hammer against metal rings out over Sanctuary, sure to wake those who aren't already stumbling blearily around in the early morning sunlight. Codsworth and Dogmeat act as guards, waiting around beneath Wanderer as he patches up the roof of one of the houses.

 

Wanderer hadn't been able to sleep last night, a nightmare too fresh in his mind for him to even attempt, so he'd sought out his method for curing insomnia back before the Institute: repair.

 

Sturges whistles as he approaches, and Dogmeat's tail thumps against the ground as he realizes he might get attention. Sure enough, Sturges scratches behind Dogmeat's ears and feeds him some kind of treat that he doesn't think Wanderer sees.

 

“So you're the one that's been getting the pup all fat?” Wanderer calls down, putting down his hammer for a moment so it doesn't block out Sturges' answer.

 

The man shrugs, unrepentant, grinning wide and easy. “What can I day? Nobody can say no to those eyes.”

 

Wanderer huffs out something resembling a laugh, hoping the weirdly good mood he's in lasts. “Well, I guess I should just be glad that somebody's been looking after him while I've been,” he waves a hand to indicate the _everything_ that's been going on with him, “indisposed.”

 

Sturges' smile goes a little tight, like he didn't expect Wanderer to just come out and admit it, but he manages to keep it stuck on his face like it's genuine. “Once I've had breakfast, I could help you out, if you want?” he offers.

 

“You're welcome whenever,” Wanderer says with a shrug, and times the strikes of his hammer to the beat of Sturges' receding footsteps.

 

 

\- - -

 

 

Deacon is in Wanderer's bed when the Vault Dweller finally decides to turn in. It's been nearly a month since Wanderer had last seen the Railroad agent, but Preston had assured him that Deacon was okay, that it was just business. Even so, the sight of Deacon waiting for him, reading some book they'd picked up in the Boston Public Library a while ago... It's almost domestic. It makes Wanderer's heart ache for a split second, imagining Deacon in the room as it'd been before the bombs fell, all clean and bright and full of warmth.

 

Wanderer crawls into his bed, right over to Deacon. He pushes the book out of his hands, garnering a small, displeased noise that quickly turns into a happy sigh when Wanderer folds Deacon into a hug. They don't fit together quite right, Wanderer's lanky, wiry frame wrapped around Deacon's softer, stouter body, but they make it work.

 

They lay down together, one of Deacon's arm snaking under Wanderer's neck while the other rests on the small of his back, while Wanderer still refuses to unwrap his arms from around Deacon's middle. Their arms will be asleep when they wake in the morning, and Deacon might want to Talk about Feelings or something equally ridiculous, but in the meantime Wanderer feels more safe in Deacon's arms than he has since he woke up from his two-hundred year nap, and that's good enough for him.

 

 

\- - -

 

 

Wanderer sits at the very edge of the Vault 111 elevator, his mind clouded by grief and alcohol.

 

The synth still walks through Wanderer's dreams, always wide-eyed and looking so much like Nora did at that age that it hurts. It's not Shaun, Wanderer knows, but sometimes he wishes he'd brought the kid with him, that he hadn't just left his synthetic son to burn with the rest of the Institute. Wanderer could have learned to love the kid, he knows, but every time he sees that face in his mind's eye he feels sick.

 

He would have remained a child forever, and Wanderer couldn't have taken that, always being faced with his greatest failure. He couldn't protect his family, and that, more than anything he'd done since crawling out of this Vault, would haunt him forever.

 

“ _I hate you!_ ” rings in his ears, forever on a feedback loop running through and through and through...

 

“You wanna come join me?” he asks to the empty air, because even though he'd like to believe he'd snuck out without anyone noticing, Wanderer is the most watched man in the Commonwealth. “I wouldn't say no to the company.”

 

Sure enough, after a moment of hesitation, Deacon melts out of the trees and comes to settle down next to Wanderer. Wordlessly, Wanderer leans against him, borrowing his strength because he can hardly see straight anymore.

 

“You've had a lot to drink, boss,” Deacon says, but there's no judgment in it, just statement of fact.

 

Wanderer laughs humorlessly, turning his face into Deacon's shoulder. “Sometimes I wish my cryosleep pod had failed, too. I should've died down there with Nora, right? Or maybe she should've lived instead of me. What a sight that would've been, huh. She would've found Shaun the day she left the Vault.” Wanderer swallows, trying his hardest not to cry because _damn it, the Hero of the Commonwealth doesn't cry_. “She was efficient like that, always got shit done.”

 

“I dunno, boss. I've never really believed in predestination, but I feel like you're here for a reason. You freed the synths, something the Railroad had been trying to do for decades, even when it cost you your son. You stopped the Brotherhood before they could even really get to be a huge threat. You're a goddamn _hero_ ,” Deacon says. “You were sent to save us, whether you know it or not.”

 

“The irony is probably lost on you,” Wanderer says, finally lifting his head, “but you sound exactly like your namesake. Deacon the deacon, heh. You might be a little bit blasple- blaphem- _blasphemous_ , Jesus – but hey, predestination isn't for everyone.”

 

Deacon frowns. “What, deacon is, like, a church thing? Huh. I always thought it was just something that had to do with beacons.”

 

Wanderer snorts, his head lolling back onto Deacon, top heavy for him to continue holding it up himself. “Didn't even know what a deacon was, but you picked the name anyway. What a _you_ thing.”

 

“You're making less and less sense, boss. I think it's time for you to get to bed,” Deacon says, trying to encourage Wanderer to his feet.

 

Wanderer scowls, putting a hand blindly to Deacon's face. “No, just. Let me sleep here. I'll get up later.”

 

Deacon grabs Wanderer's hand a little too rough, but makes up for it by pressing sweet kisses to his fingers and palm. It's like a benediction, and the sins weighing on Wanderer's shoulders feel a little less heavy.

 

Wanderer slips off into sleep, but for the first time in months, he doesn't see his son.

 

 

\- - -

 

 

Their first kiss isn't that great. Their teeth clack together, they don't know where to put their hands, and Deacon's sunglasses press into both of their faces painfully because he refuses to take them off.

 

Their second kiss is much better. Wanderer pushes Deacon's glasses up on top of his head, but doesn't look Deacon in the eyes, unsure if he's allowed that. Deacon's hands go to Wanderer's waist, and Wanderer cups Deacon's jaw, angling him just right. They taste each other, slow and methodical and it's almost perfect, almost everything Wanderer's ever wanted.

 

In this moment, Wanderer doesn't want soft and gentle. He pushes Deacon back onto their bed and follows him down, reclaiming his lips hungrily. Deacon's fingers dig into Wanderer's hips, under his shirt, his just-too-long fingernails biting half-moons into the skin there. _Yes_ , that's what Wanderer wants.

 

Wanderer sinks his teeth into the junction of Deacon's neck and shoulder, not too hard, just enough to communicate his message. Without hesitation, Deacon rolls them over, on his hands and knees on top of Wanderer and bracketing him in. They stare at each other, Deacon's sunglasses finally off to show Wanderer his eyes, and _damn_ Wanderer understands why Deacon wears his shades. His eyes are crazy expressive, telling Wanderer everything Deacon feels, what he's thinking, and, shit, how turned on he is.

 

Wanderer slips his hand up the back of Deacon's shirt, pressing his palm in between shoulder blades and trying to get him closer, closer, closer.

 

They kiss again, hips aligned so they can feel each other through layers of fabric, and Deacon moans into Wanderer's mouth when he nips at Deacon's lips.

 

“Are we doing this?” Deacon breathes into the scant space between their mouths, eyes roving over what he can see of Wanderer's face like he's soaking in this unfiltered view of his, what are they? Boyfriends? Partners?

 

Wanderer's eyes crinkle up like he's grinning, and the smile is in his voice as he says, “If my new codename is _this_ , then I guess you _are_ going to be _doing this_.”

 

Deacon rolls his eyes, but can't keep himself from kissing the shit-eating smile off of Wanderer's face.

 

Wanderer palms Deacon through his jeans, making the man's breath hitch in his throat. Wanderer presses against Deacon again, tracing the outline of his hardness. Deacon's forehead rests against Wanderer's his eyes screwed shut as Wanderer unzips him, reaching in and wrapping a calloused hand around his shaft and pumping once.

 

Deacon hisses at the dry movement, his hand flying out and rifling through the bedside table until he comes up with a tube of lube that Wanderer has never seen before in his life.

 

“What the hell? Where'd you get this?” he asks, distracted from his ministrations.

 

“Look, I have my ways. You just, uh, might not want to dwell on it too long. C'mon, boss, can we just get back to the whole, _doing this_?” Deacon says, his voice almost turning to a whine.

 

Wanderer quirks his eyebrows, amused that he has Deacon turned into putty and he's hardly done a thing. Without comment, Wanderer slicks his hand up and goes back to jerking Deacon off. Deacon shudders against him, elbows locking to support himself above Wanderer.

 

“Been awhile since anybody's done this for you, hasn't it?” Wanderer says, twisting his wrist despite the odd angle just so he can hear Deacon gasp.

 

Deacon licks his lips and expels a shaky breath while he tries to answer Wanderer, “I, _shit_ , could ask the same of you, b-boss.”

 

Wanderer plays with the head of Deacon's cock while his free hand goes to toy with his balls. “Oh, I don't know. Probably not as long as you'd think. Before I met you I had some, ah, _interesting_ run-ins with the locals.”

 

Deacon opens his mouth to reply, but Wanderer presses a finger into Deacon's perineum, tearing a shocked cry from Deacon's throat as he shakes, pushing down into Wanderer's hand.

 

“ _Fuck_ , boss, I-I,” Deacon stutters, face screwed up in pleasure. His cock pulses in Wanderer's hand, and it really must have been a while, if he's already so close to coming.

 

Careful as he can, Wanderer switches their positions, swiftly stripping his shirt off while Deacon regains his bearings. Deacon looks at Wanderer with flushed cheeks, panting like he's run a marathon, but he's also got this _extremely_ indignant look on his face, like he's genuinely offended that Wanderer doesn't have a hand on his dick anymore.

 

Wanderer smirks down at Deacon, popping the button on his pants open and watching as Deacon's eyes immediately flick down to where Wanderer slowly, slowly pulls his own zipper down. Deacon put his hands on Wanderer's thighs, sliding them up to squeeze Wanderer's ass and then back down to his knees, just as willing to be patient as he is to encourage Wanderer to move faster.

 

After what feels like an eternity, Wanderer pulls himself out of his pants, giving himself a brief tug to take the edge off. Deacon swipes his thumb over Wanderer's slit, eliciting a short intake of breath from the Vaultie. Emboldened by the positive reaction, Deacon wraps his hand around Wanderer and strokes his thumb over the bundle of nerves just beneath Wanderer's cockhead.

 

Wanderer drizzles lube over Deacon's fingers wordlessly, and the man proceeds to take both of them in one big hand and jerk them off in tandem, his pace constant and relentless.

 

“Fuck, Deacon,” Wanderer gasps, “So good, so good. Just like that, oh _shit_.” Wanderer's hand palms over their tips, smearing their pre-come together so that when he licks it off he can't even tell where Deacon ends and he begins.

 

Deacon groans at the sight of Wanderer tasting them together, speeding his hand up and trying to find release. Wanderer is making noise above him, some nonsensical words about how _good you are, Deacon_ , and _fuck, yes, right there, like that, do that again_. Deacon follows every one of Wanderer's instructions, watching his face as he gets closer and closer to the edge.

 

Wanderer thumbs his nipples, shuddering at the wave of heat it sends crashing over him. “Deacon, Deacon,” he pants, “I want you- _shit_ , twist your-” he breaks off on a groan as Deacon anticipates him and twists his wrist on the upstroke. Wanderer grinds down into Deacon's hand, loving the wet slide of their dicks together. “Deacon,” he says, remembering what it was he wanted, “Deacon, say my name.”

 

“Wander-” Deacon starts, but Wanderer whines, shaking his head.

 

“No, no. Nate, call me Nate, say-”

 

“Nate,” Deacon says, like he's testing out the name.

 

Wanderer shudders, like the sound of his name is driving him further up the wall, like it's going to be his undoing.

 

Deacon tightens his grip and bucks up, his free hand moving up to roll Wanderer's nipple between his thumb and forefinger. Wanderer keens, fingers tight in the thin sheet on the bed, sure to rip it if he keeps holding on so tight.

 

“You're gorgeous like this, Nate,” Deacon says, his voice working without him even thinking. “Fuck, you're so hot. Next time, ah, next time I'm gonna fuck you. I'll open you up nice and slow, have you begging for me, make you come before I even get my dick in you, and-” he moans, pinching Wanderer's nipple just to hear him whine high in the back of his throat again.

 

Wanderer tears his hand away from the bedding to join Deacon's around their cocks, speeding them up as he feels orgasm build in his gut. “Tell me more, Deacon, keep t-talking to me, please,” he says, and who is Deacon to say no?

 

“You like hearing me tell you what I'll do? I'm gonna fuck you 'til you can't walk, I'll have you _screaming_ my name, Nate. I'll be so good for you, make you forget about anybody else you've ever fucked,” Deacon says, and slides his hand down Wanderer's torso to hold his hip, digging more marks into Wanderer's skin so he'll remember this whenever he sees them.

 

Wanderer moans, the mental image too much. “Fuck yes, Deacon. _Shit_ , I'm gonna come, I'm so close,” he says.

 

Deacon circles his free hand around Wanderer's body and presses against his hole, feeling Wanderer go rigid, holding himself so tight Deacon's almost afraid he'll shatter. The very tip of Deacon's finger slides home just as he gives their cocks a particularly rough tug and Wanderer is coming, followed almost immediately by Deacon, as if he was just waiting for Wanderer's signal.

 

They stroke each other through the aftershocks, Deacon pulling his finger out and petting the small of Wanderer's back. When it gets to be too much, they go boneless side by side, panting and staring up at the ceiling.

 

Wanderer slips his fingers between Deacon's and squeezes, reassuring and warm, and the moment is perfect, truly perfect. Their first kiss was lackluster, their second was good, but the third they shared with sweat and come cooling on their bodies, smiles in the way so it was more like just pressing their teeth together; their third kiss was _perfect_.

 

 

\- - -

 

 

Wanderer watches the flames lick at the sky, the sounds of revelry around him all background, unimportant. It's been a year since the Institute, and the first anniversary of course calls for a party. Wanderer is perhaps the only one not celebrating, with even Danse hiding his smiles behind bottles of beer given to him by Buddy.

 

Deacon's hand slides into Wanderer's, catching his attention. The man is smiling, gentle and sappy, eyes only for Wanderer. When they kiss, it's familiar, their lips pressing together in the way they've fallen to, but it still sends those damned butterflies in Wanderer's belly into a tizzy. With the firelight reflected in Deacon's glasses and friends all around, Wanderer wonders if he isn't really celebrating, after all.

 

He wasn't able to save his son or his wife, but he saved the Commonwealth, a place he's come to call home. He doesn't have his flesh and blood, he doesn't have Nora's soft, sweet grins, but he has his new family, the family he forged over long weeks of travel, through hellfire and steel and pain.

 

Despite everything – or perhaps _because_ of everything – it's enough.

 


End file.
